


heatblush

by bluu



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/F, Feral Lesbians, Finger Sucking, Inspired by Killing Eve (TV 2018), Rated For Violence, Shotgunning, everyday alisa wakes up and chooses violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27091198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluu/pseuds/bluu
Summary: But the cuts on her hand throb and Miwa relishes in the reminder that this is what she was what she so desperately craved. This assassin, mysteriously shrouded in divine drama, tragedy trailing in her wake. Miwa will track her down and rewrite this story of hers. Twist her ending into one of bleeding justice.Miwa and Alisa. Cat and mouse. Chase the killer. How do you come to terms with your own violence?
Relationships: Haiba Alisa/Kageyama Miwa
Comments: 26
Kudos: 89





	heatblush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devote/gifts).



> GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. being a story about an assassin - it gets bloody.
> 
> dedicated to [ange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devote/pseuds/devote), who wrote the miwalisa bible, and [em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winkblue/pseuds/winkblue), who wrote a KE au herself and pushed me to write and finish this.
> 
> [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2vAjtRH8qI8Z24TvkukZ2j?si=WD7ujN4IQ8q_PlPC_IbXGQ)

Desire is a mirror. Miwa looks into it and sees a sea of fire, smoldering, bloody. A pit of coals, burning black. She’s thirty and when she peers into her own eyes she finds exhausted rage. Or growling hunger, all lust and blindness. At this point, it’s hard to tell the difference.

She examines her jaw: perpetually clenched. Nose: tip of a knife. Cheekbones: a kind of mountain, impossible to climb. The deep shadows under her eyes reminds her how truly old she is now: thirty, weary bones, wrinkles. The mirror tells her that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. The mirror says, why _are you wasting away? Like ashes to the wind. You’re better than that._

Miwa dabs a bit of concealer under her eyes, rubbing circles into her skin, before slamming her fist into the glass.

-

There’s a kind of poetry to the ennui of a mid-life crisis. Miwa spends her days in the MI5 office drinking watery coffee, the kind that leaves grains of ground beans in your mouth, and filing stacks of paperwork saying this and that, reports that say nothing at all, really. Miwa’s long learned to let her eyes glaze over when scanning documents — the childish curiosity of investigating murders and her sense of vigilante justice dying a very undignified death as a consequence of being jailed in a little office. The MI5 cubicle is a bit like a black box: Miwa goes in, some things happen, Miwa comes out irreparably jaded. Her body is now a product of ugly bureaucracy: wired machinery churning out dull reports, her doctorate degree in criminal psychology left in a waste bin somewhere in the interview room where she accepted the offer.

Miwa scribbles an X over the top of a page and staples a stack together with one swift, forceful snap.

“What happened to your hand?” Saeko says from the cubicle next to her. From the corner of her eye, Miwa sees that her co-worker has scooted over in her office chair, peering over the divider to stare at her hand suspiciously.

Miwa glances down at her fingers wrapped in gauze and shrugs. “Cut my fingers cooking last night.”

“I thought you were right-handed.”

“I’m ambidextrous,” Miwa lies.

“Okay,” Saeko says. Then, dropping the subject, she asks, “Have you heard about the new case?”

Blinking, Miwa finally turns her full attention over to Saeko, whose eyes are bright with adrenaline. “Go on.”

“Well, it’s not really a _case_ yet. But there’s been a string of murders throughout the city. Gruesome gross shit, high-profile. You know the multimillionaire of the Inarizaki fund?”

Miwa smiles, recounting the facts. “Stabbed in the eye with a poison dart, which was his cause of death. Lacerations to the jugular vein and Achilles tendons. He was fifty-nine, left behind a wife, two mistresses, and four children.”

Saeko eyed her warily, before reaching back to her desk to fetch a file. “Yes, well, him. We think there’s another murder by the same person.”

She delivers the file with an outstretched arm and a crooked eyebrow. Miwa takes it as if the folder was some sort of holy offering, flipping it open greedily. The photos, clinically shot, almost don’t do the crime justice — brushstrokes of blood paint on plush cream carpet, the corpse lying prone with a sanguine blossom in his chest, right at the heart.

“Wow,” Miwa says, raising her eyebrows, admiring the carnage of it all. The bullet wound is deliberate and precise. Miwa can tell from the shocked look on the corpse’s face that the killer took him by surprise, the expression forever carved into his body as it succumbs to rigor mortis. She clears her throat, looking up at Saeko. “Do you know who’s assigned to it?”

“Kanoka and Daichi. I’m not supposed to know that,” Saeko answers, grinning. “They’re trying to keep it under wraps. The bosses don’t want this to get out to the media. Don’t want the MI5 to be accused of being useless again.”

“Yeah, well, look at us,” Miwa snorts. “Do they have any leads?”

Saeko gestured to the file in Miwa’s hands once more. Miwa looks down at it, flips through a few pages, and lands on the suspect list. All men, aged around thirty to fifty, some with criminal histories that have been dug up from their database: assault, theft, the like. Miwa frowns before turning over another piece of paper, this time a comprehensive biography of the victim. She stares at the profile.

“Yeah,” Saeko says, interrupting Miwa’s train of thought. “You see why the big man doesn’t want this to get leaked to the press before we have some kind of handle on it.”

“A fucking politican? We’re probably dealing with some kind of assassin here, what in hell is this suspect list?”

“Beats me. Not my job.” Saeko wheels away from Miwa, leaving her with the folder to situate herself back in her own cubicle. “Do you have better ideas?”

“Yeah. For one, the suspect is probably a woman. He’s been moonlighted for human trafficking. Since he’s a politician, he’s probably got some heavy security detail — the most plausible situation is a woman, masquerading as a victim, who managed to get him in private and then quickly assassinate him before getting out.”

“That sounds likely,” Saeko agrees, “but what are you going to do about it?”

Miwa pauses. Looks at the file, the autopsy photos, grisly death splayed out in the pictures like a voyeuristic show of psychosis. Thinks about how she’s been assigned to desk work when an assassin leaves crumbs practically begging for Miwa to investigate, to catch. The chance to pick this killer’s brain, this woman who managed to loudly murder a politican from Poland without a single clue of her identity — that’s why Miwa wanted to pursue this line of work in the first place.

But she shrugs and closes the folder, placing it back on her desk. “Beats me.”

-

Miwa stays a bit longer when night falls and all the bodies flood out of the office doors at five o’clock. The fluorescent lights cast a ghastly green wash over her table and her desktop, and her eyes ache from staring at the eternal walls of text from the archives in the database. But the cuts on her hand throb and Miwa relishes in the reminder that this is what she was what she so desperately craved. This assassin, mysteriously shrouded in divine drama, tragedy trailing in her wake. Miwa will track her down and rewrite this story of hers. Twist her ending into one of bleeding justice.

Miwa doesn’t need to be assigned to the case to catch the killer. Not when she was going to personally track her down herself.

-

She discovers that there is one witness, a leftover to the crime — the politician’s girlfriend, who is currently in intensive care at a hospital not far from the office. Miwa shows up to the hospital bringing nothing but a notebook and her badge, just in case. Before she goes to the witness’s room, she makes a quick pit stop at the bathroom, making sure she looks as professional as possible as she undertakes an unauthorized interrogation with a key eyewitness. Unnecessary questions are just going to get in her way.

Miwa is in the middle of brushing her hair and gathering it into a short low ponytail when a nurse comes out of one of the stalls and approaches the faucet next to her. But the nurse doesn’t move or wash her hands. She just stares at Miwa, unmoving.

Miwa frowns, turning her head towards the nurse to judge her properly. Catlike, lithe limbs with platinum blonde hair wrapped into a neat bun on top of her scalp. Crystal blue eyes like polished pools of glass, reflecting Miwa’s own image back at her. Curved smile.

“I’m sorry,” Miwa starts slowly, “do I know you?”

The nurse says nothing, quickly turning away to twist the faucet knob and washes her hands briskly before wringing her hands dry. Miwa shifts her attention back to her hair as the nurse walks away, her feet barely audible on the bathroom tile, whisper-silent.

The nurse doesn’t answer her question. Instead, she says, “You have beautiful eyes,” a voice like song reverberating in the acoustic chambers of the bathroom.

She steps out the door, closing it softly.

When Miwa enters the witness’s room there is a massacre. Two doctors, bodies polka-dotted with stabbed wounds, crumpled on the ground. The politician’s girlfriend lying in the cot with her throat slit, her palms facing the ceiling in limp defeat. The stench of blood flooding the air, putrid copper.

Miwa drops her notebook and screams.

-

“You’re fired,” her boss declares. “For conducting an unauthorized interrogation of a vulnerable eyewitness.”

Miwa sinks into her chair.

“But,” she continues, a hard glint in her eye, “I’m hiring you as a private investigator for the case.”

-

The first time the assassin contacts her it’s with _eau de parfum_ — a black, rhinestone covered bottle of a Yves Saint Laurent luxury scent. Miwa finds it nestled mysteriously in her handbag after one Sunday brunch. When she takes out the perfume at first she squints at it, the musk of violets and cedarwood wafting in the stale air of her apartment before she nearly drops the fragile bottle out of paralyzed fear. The perfume comes with a note card, gilded stock, with ink scrawl that writes _SORRY, BABY._

Out of sheer curiosity, Miwa sprays the perfume on her neck; somehow, it’s exactly what she likes in a scent.

The second time the assassin contacts her it’s with a bouquet of roses. Miwa’s a little less shell shocked this time, as she knows her name now through her investigation. Haiba Alisa. There’s a power in names; however, still unnerved, adrenaline bubbles in Miwa’s veins when she carefully cradles the bouquet in her arms. She runs a finger over the thorns with just enough pressure to nick her skin, a droplet of blood pooling on her skin as she studies the flowers. They swirl into a tight bud, petals curtsying from the core like a billowing dress.

The note Alisa leaves the second time is slightly longer. The assassin offers a sentence: _THOUGHT OF YOU, XX._ Miwa contemplates throwing the bouquet out in the trash, but opts for using a bucket as a makeshift vase. The roses are beautiful, after all.

The third time —

Alisa Haiba is at her dinner table, nonchalantly eating a bowl of fried rice that Miwa has heated up in the microwave. Miwa is trying not to burst in an ugly explosion of apprehension, fear, and determination as she grips a small kitchen knife with a sweaty palm.

“How did you get in here,” Miwa stammers, opting for a safe question first. When Miwa comes home that day she finds Alisa lounging on her bed sucking on a lollipop, lips puckered around the candy. Miwa screams, only for Alisa to shush her and simply say _get me some food, dear, I’m a bit hungry._

“You leave your bedroom window unlocked,” Alisa chimes around a spoonful of rice. Her voice is laced with the slight guttural husk of a Russian accent. “You really should stop doing that. It’s not safe.”

“Safety?” Miwa all but shrieks. “Don’t tell me you’re here to lecture me about home security.”

Alisa smiles brightly, cheeks rosy. “Of course I’m not. Just wanted to have dinner and get to know the person who’s investigating me. That’s all.”

“You were there,” Miwa gulps, trying to tame the way her thoughts race in her head. “You killed everyone in that hospital room. You saw me then.”

Alisa’s sweet smile remains. “You do have beautiful eyes. So blue. Like sapphire gems. I do very much like precious jewels. Almost makes me want to carve them out your skull and keep them for myself.”

Miwa’s blood runs ice cold, and her grip on the knife trembles. She wills herself to not shit herself: she’s a private agent, after all. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Miwa, darling. I already told you I just wanted to get to know you. Do you make fried rice often? It’s quite satisfying, though heavy on the sesame oil for my tastes. Maybe try more peas next time. The peas are delightful.”

“The peas,” Miwa repeats.

“Peas. Little bursts of flavor in the mouth. Lovely.”

Miwa sits dumbfounded. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, she tries another question. “Why aren’t you going to kill me?”

“Not my job. Not yet, at least.”

 _Yet._ “Your job?”

“My, my,” Alisa says, lifting a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “If you haven’t figured out that I’m for hire then I’m not sure what you’ve been spending your time on in your investigation. You do know my name, I hope.”

“Alisa,” Miwa says, holding the name in her mouth and letting it hiss through her teeth. “Haiba Alisa.”

Alisa hums. “Don’t forget it, now.”

A silence falls over them like a curtain of dread, draping heavily on Miwa’s shoulders. She gulps before saying, “You kill for money, then.”

“The money is nice, yes.”

“And?” Miwa presses.

“And it’s fun, and I’m good at it. Don’t we all want to make a living on what we’re good at? What we think is fun?” Alisa scoops another bite of food into her mouth. “Tell me, do you enjoy your job?”

 _No, I didn’t._ “Yes.”

“Heard you got fired, then rehired. How does that work?”

Miwa doesn’t say anything in response, wary of giving too much information to the assassin. Alisa notices her silence and sighs, pouting slightly before continuing. “You make your money off of me, no? You could call in your team right now. Have me arrested. Are you not doing so because you can make money off of me for longer?”

“What the hell,” Miwa says. “You’d kill me before I’d have the chance to pick up my phone. I don’t do this job for _money._ ”

“No,” Alisa murmurs lowly, putting her spoon down before leaning in closer to Miwa. Just breaths away from touching. Here, Miwa can see all the little perfections of Alisa’s face: the way her eyelashes flutter, fanning out on porcelain cheeks. The viridian of her eyes, a lost look tiptoeing between the line of unhinged insanity and dreamlike reverie. The puffiness of her lower lip. Miwa is acutely aware that there is a hired killer inches away from her face but all she can think is _god, she smells good._

Alisa smirks as if she knows exactly where Miwa’s thoughts are drifting to; the sight of it almost feels like a chilled blade running down Miwa’s back. Alisa cocks her head, turning her attention to Miwa’s throat as she inches closer, as if searching for exactly where Miwa’s arteries are. Continuing, her voice is barely above a whisper when she says, “You do this job because you love the thrill. You’re just like me. You love the chase. You love the hunt.”

“What the fuck do you know,” Miwa growls, ignoring the feeling of Alisa’s breath on her neck. Ignoring the feeling of the goosebumps that raise traitorously on her skin. “You’re a psychopathic murderer.”

“So chase me then,” Alisa whispers.

As fast as she could possibly muster, Miwa whips the knife in her hand and jumps out of her seat to point the blade at Alisa; but Alisa is faster, catlike reflexes honed by killing, and she grabs Miwa’s wrist and deftly hurls her around, shoving her hard against the nearest wall. The knife is now in the killer’s hands and Miwa is backed up against her own kitchen with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and Alisa points the tip of the blade right against Miwa’s jugular. Runs the sharp point like a needle finding cloth down Miwa’s neck.

“It’s worse,” Alisa breathes, “when I do it slowly.”

“Do it,” Miwa spits, trembling. Her skin runs hot and all she can think about is how Alisa hovers over her, centimeters away from abruptly slashing Miwa’s throat open. “Kill me, then.”

Alisa’s eyes flicker across Miwa’s face. Just watching. “Not my job, darling,” she repeats.

Miwa swallows, examines the look on Alisa’s face, hardens her resolve before asking, “Who do you work for?”

“Are you interrogating me?” Alisa asks, almost sounding impressed.

“You won’t kill me, right? I might as well get as much information as I can when I have you.”

“That’s so cute,” Alisa laughs. Then she drags the blade down Miwa’s neck, the point skimming over the skin. When the knife finds Miwa’s collarbone Alisa pushes the blade in just a bit — enough to sting like a searing rip, drawing blood. A threat.

“Fuck,” Miwa hisses, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the electrifying pain. “Why are you stalking me?”

“Oh, dear. You’re the one stalking _me._ I’m just returning the favor.”

“And the gifts?”

“Did you like them?”

Miwa opens her eyes and Alisa is still smirking. “No.”

“Liar. I got a whiff of the perfume on your neck. You’re wearing it.”

Miwa gulps and Alisa’s eyes trail down her throat yet again, watching how it bobs.

“We’re coming after you, you know,” Alisa says, something like fabricated, exaggerated sympathy morphing her face into one of wide-eyed concern. “People you know will die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Miwa hangs on one word: “We?”

Alisa merely smiles. Then she steps away, pulling the knife away from Miwa’s neck and placing it down on the counter behind her. “Do be a dear and try not to make any stupid mistakes. I’d hate to have to kill you before I need to.”

Miwa doesn’t know how to move. Her limbs are frozen, as if her body is telling her the same: not to make any stupid mistakes lest this assassin has a change a heart and decides to stab her in the stomach. She watches as her suspect picks up her luxury handbag, slings it over her shoulder, and makes her way to her front door. Her brain screams at her to chase her, to call the team and lock her up and question her in jail.

But Alisa twists the knob, opening the door, and calls out one last time before she leaves. “I’ll be seeing you around, Miwa. Catch me if you can.”

It’s a warning. It’s a promise.

Miwa collapses where she stands and stares at her hands.

-

“Tell us about her,” her boss says at their meeting.

“She’s young. Doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five. She’s got platinum blonde hair, delicately wavy, that reaches the middle of her back. Green-grey eyes, almost feline; wide, but alert. She’s tall, slim. She has very delicate features: high cheekbones, and a thin nose. She has… a lost look in her eye. Totally focused, yet almost entirely inaccessible.”

-

Alisa’s next kill, as promised, is Sawamura Daichi.

Daichi’s corpse is found by his husband in the bathroom, slumped against the bathtub with a bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead. The husband is understandably distraught, shrieking at the scene of the crime and holding Daichi’s limp form in his arms, sobbing into his neck, splattered with gore. Miwa watches as the teardrops, mixed with blood, run down Daichi’s skin as if fresh.

“You have to catch him,” his husband begs. “For Daichi. He just wanted to protect the city.”

 _Her,_ Miwa thinks. “Of course we will.”

-

The next time Miwa meets Alisa it’s at a park in broad daylight. It seems entirely by coincidence — but of course, how could it be, when the two of them are chasing each other in a deadly circle, just waiting for the other to trip up first. Alisa wears a satin pink suit over the frilliest blouse Miwa has ever seen, almost like she walked straight out of a Chanel runway and onto the streets.

“Did you like my gift?” is the first thing out of Alisa’s mouth when Miwa sits down on the park bench next to her, overlooking the pond of ducks that swim carefree through rippling waters.

“I don’t wear jewelry,” Miwa responds. Alisa had sent her a pair of earrings, sapphire and diamond embedded into small hoops. She must have noticed that Miwa has her ears pierced in several places and the little bronze studs that she wears in her lobes. “Not to work, at least.”

“Pity. But did you like it?”

Miwa doesn’t say anything in response to that.

Alisa smiles as she always seems to and reaches into the pocket of her suit to fish out a pack of cigarettes. They’re the luxe kind — skinny and white, almost straw-like, wrapped in gold film around the filter. She plucks one out, fits them softly between her lips, and tips the pack towards Miwa. “Want one?”

 _God,_ Miwa thinks. _A smoke break with a murderer._ She takes a cigarette and sticks it in her mouth.

Alisa tucks the pack back into her pocket and takes out a lighter — a Zippo, expensive metal and sleek. She flicks it on, the straight flame burning bright like a miniature sun in her hands as she brings it to her smoke and lights it. Miwa waits for her to offer the lighter to her as well, but Alisa puts it away and leans over instead. Sitting perfectly still, Miwa stares as Alisa nudges the lit end of her cigarette with her own, the embers catching and passing on to light her smoke aflame like a smouldering kiss of tobacco.

Miwa exhales sharply before closing her eyes and breathing in the nicotine, letting the feeling of serenity that it brings wash over her worn muscles. “I should turn you in.”

“Yes,” Alisa says. “You should.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“You should never tell a psychopath that they’re a psychopath, Miwa. It upsets them.”

Miwa can’t help but bark out a laugh at that. “Are you upset?”

“How can I be?” Alisa croons between drags. The smoke billows out of her lips and dissipates into the air. “I’m spending a beautiful day outdoors with a beautiful woman. Nothing can make me more happy.”

“Are you happy?” Miwa asks, frowning deeply. “Do you feel things?”

Alisa hums. “Not in the conventional sense, no.”

Miwa sighs. Then, mostly to herself, she says, “What’s stopping me from just turning you in?”

That gets Alisa to pause. She looks over at her, with those clear green eyes that Miwa wants to jump into and drown in. Her lips curve up and she lifts her cigarette to her lips, gaze unbreakable. Then, she whispers, “Because you want this. This feeling of being alive. You and I— we’re the same.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Miwa whispers back.

“Don’t deny it. I know you weren’t assigned to me at first. You sought me out. You’re still seeking. I’m right in front of you, and it still feels like you haven’t caught me, doesn’t it?”

“You,” Miwa breathes. “You’re crazy.”

“It feels that way because you don’t understand me like you want to. Don’t you think?”

Miwa feels something in her burn, angry and hungry. It starts in her stomach and climbs up her lungs, where the smoke spins like ghosts, and stops in her throat as she tries to swallow the feeling away. Because Alisa’s right. Here she is, lounging in a park bench right next to her, legs crossed and hair tossed over her shoulder and utterly open, and Miwa still can’t find what she’s looking for. Like she’s lost in an ocean with no shore to be seen.

Miwa hates how much Alisa knows her so instinctually. Miwa hates how she’s right. Miwa hates how she wants to have Alisa come apart in her hands.

“You can understand me,” Alisa continues. “If you really want to, that is.”

“How?”

Alisa inhales a drag from her cigarette. “Close your eyes.”

Unthinkingly, Miwa shuts her eyes. Part of her is screaming at her to run, to handcuff this enigma of a woman and lock her up in jail. To do anything. She does none of those things, and Miwa feels the unmistakable feeling of lips on her. The kiss is soft as Alisa drags her bottom lip on her own, nudging for Miwa to open her mouth with the slowest, slightest of licks. Miwa lets the smoke from Alisa’s mouth floods into her own, hot and burning as it scalds every inch of her on the way down. Miwa breathes in, deep, feeling the sear and holding the smoke there as it collects in the base of her lungs.

The taste of the tobacco is tinged with candy sweetness from Alisa’s lipgloss. Miwa sighs the smoke out and opens her eyes: languidly, as if waking up from a dream unreachable.

“Do you get it?” Alisa asks as she pulls away, her face unbearably far from Miwa’s.

“No,” Miwa lies.

The smile on Alisa’s lips is knowing. “You will.”

-

Miwa thinks herself into an unshakeable vortex of desire. Thinks of Alisa’s creamy thighs and the curve of her neck. Thinks of the cuts on her own fist and how they seem to ache a bit more whenever she sees Alisa. Thinks of how untouchable the halo of Alisa’s waist seems to be. How she wants to grip Alisa’s hips so hard it bruises under Miwa’s hands, mottled purple blooms unmade with Miwa’s touch. How Miwa wants to split Alisa’s legs open like a knife on skin and lick the wound.

How Alisa knows all of this, how Alisa wants her too. How they dance together without being close. How Miwa wants them to be close, how Miwa wants to break her apart until Alisa is begging for more. How Miwa hates herself for all of it.

-

Alisa’s next kill is Tanaka Saeko.

“You are fucking sick,” Miwa growls at Alisa, who she has pushed up against an alley wall two blocks down from Saeko’s apartment, where her body lies cold. Miwa has a gun this time, the nozzle pressed against Alisa’s abdomen.

“Scary,” Alisa mocks with a soft chuckle. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Kill you, what else?”

“False,” Alisa says. “You’re going to kiss me.”

Miwa, burning as hot as a sea of flames, slams her mouth on Alisa’s lips.

-

How do you come to terms with your own violence? That you believe that beauty is unrelentingly brutal, beauty is feeling alive, beauty is the adrenaline and the moment you are hanging from a cliff and a girl is holding you by your collar and you don't know whether she's going to drop you to your death or haul you to safety and kiss you. That you love the thrill of it all, that you crave the chase, that you don't care if the girl drops you or if she kisses you. You just want the girl.

Alisa’s lips are wrapped around Miwa’s fingers as Miwa slides them in and out of her mouth, sloppy, wet, soft, tongue lapping over the bone. Miwa strokes the inside of Alisa’s cheek and wonders if it feels the same as it would if Miwa curls her fingers inside Alisa instead. Alisa closes her eyes as if she’s in a trance, sucking on Miwa’s finger as if she needs it as badly as breathing, as badly as killing. Desperation as conduit for lust. Bloodhunger replaced by pleasure.

“Is it really true that you don’t feel things?” Miwa mumbles, pulling her finger out of Alisa’s mouth and tracing her bottom lip with her thumb. “That you don’t feel this?”

Alisa’s words are sticky on Miwa’s ear as she whispers, “I feel things when I’m with you. And only you.”

-

“Do you understand, now?” Alisa asks, tangled up in Miwa’s sheets like a flower in vines. Miwa wants to pick her from the brush, pluck her petals until she is left with nothing but the heart of the rose.

“I think I always did,” Miwa admits softly, like her bedroom is a confessional and Alisa is the priest and the god all at once.

“Good,” Alisa says, and the pond mirrors of Alisa’s eyes, water-depths of desire, tell her that this is exactly what it’s supposed to be like.

Miwa closes her eyes and drowns.

**Author's Note:**

> phew! im gay
> 
> [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/oikawatcoru)


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